


Paper Moon

by lizzycromwell



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-05-23
Updated: 2014-05-23
Packaged: 2018-01-26 05:35:15
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,102
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1676606
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lizzycromwell/pseuds/lizzycromwell
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Grifters AU set in the 1930s</p><p>Alayne Stone is the star attraction of her father's traveling carnival--a stage singer who, behind the scenes, helps him con his unwary customers. Their smooth act, however, is thrown into chaos when someone threatens to expose Alayne's most important con: being Petyr Baelish's daughter.</p><p>Written for Petyr/Sansa Week 2014</p>
            </blockquote>





	Paper Moon

_It’s a Barnum and Bailey world_

_Just as phony as it can be_

_But it wouldn’t be make believe_

_If you believed in me_

 

Alayne finished tacking the canvas backdrop to the screen at the rear of the stage.  It was only a sheet she’d painted black and dotted with white stars—and in the harsh daylight it looked exactly like the sad _ad hoc_ scrim it really was—but she knew that when night fell, and the little stage was lit with soft yellow lantern light, Petyr would make the audience forget their shabby surroundings for a while.  That was the reason they came, after all.  To forget.

 _How do you know anyone will even buy tickets?_ she’d asked when they first started. _Doesn’t it seem a little frivolous, with times so hard?_

 _That’s exactly why they_ will _come, sweetling_ , Peter had said.  _To forget._

 She was smoothing the wrinkles out of the sheet when she felt a hand on her shoulder.  Alayne nearly jumped out of her skin.

“Ready for the show tonight, Ally?” a low male voice whispered in her ear.  The hair on Alayne’s neck prickled uncomfortably.  Marillion was standing much too close, and his hand was slowly moving south from her shoulders, down her back.  She pulled away before he could get any lower. 

“I thought you were practicing,” Alayne said with a stiff smile, trying to project her displeasure without causing a scene. There were already people milling about—nervous squares looking uncomfortable in their Sunday clothes, adolescent girls giggling at the slightly racy novelty of visiting a traveling carnival—even though it wasn’t yet dark.  As uncomfortable as Marillion made her feel, Alayne smiled at the customers. _The rubes_ , Petyr called them. _The marks._ They came to forget their troubles, and a confrontation with Marillion would spoil the effect, such as it was. 

 _Maybe that’s why he does it in public,_ Alayne thought.  In public, but never when Petyr was around.  Lately he was getting more daring, though, and it made her nervous. Marillion’s words were always sweet, but there was something sharp under them—like he was getting impatient with her for not yielding.  Alayne shivered. A thought had come to her suddenly, seemingly out of nowhere, as if dropping from the painted sky of her canvas scrim.

 _Something’s got to be done about Marillion_.  That was the thought.  And Alayne knew, without saying so in words even to herself, that it wouldn’t be something good.

“How am I supposed to practice without you, Ally?” Marillion purred.  He had his guitar slung over his back, and he plucked at the shoulder strap in an agitated way. “I can’t focus when I’m on my own. I just keep seeing you up on stage like the first night, in that silver dress, with the lights on your copper hair. Hey Ally, why’d you dye your hair anyway?”

“It was distracting the boys,” Alayne said drily. The last customers (rubes, marks, squares) had left the tent, and Alayne dropped her cheerful performer act. ALLY THE SONGBIRD—that’s what the sign outside her tent said.  That’s what she had to be, most of the time.

And Alayne all of the time.

 _Stop it,_ Alayne scolded herself.  _Who else would you be?_

No one, obviously.  There was no one else.  Who could she be but herself, Petyr’s daughter and starring act, Alayne Stone, Alayne his sweetling, Ally the Songbird.  It was just that Marillion’s comment about her hair… she’d almost thought of someone she wasn’t supposed to think about.

Didn’t think about.  Not ever.  Not even in her head.

Marillion laughed, and brought her back to the present.

“You’re so clever, Ally,” he said, sidling close to her again.  Too close. “But I wish you’d be sweet to me. I’d hang the moon for you, you know that.”

“All right,” Alayne said.  Marillion’s eyes widened, but Alayne only pointed off stage. “There it is.”

She watched Marillion’s surprised smile fall as he followed her finger.  In the wings, a large crescent moon made of paper and plaster leaned against the prop table.

“There’s no point having a sky full of stars if there’s no moon,” Alayne commented, glancing at the painted backdrop she’d just put up.  “There’s some wire backstage—try not to tear the canvas.”

Marillion glowered at the prop moon for a moment before turning back to Alayne, annoyed.  But she had already made her escape, leaving only the tent flap to flutter behind her.

* * * 

The carnival came to life as the sun set. At dusk, shadows and colored lights turned the seedy campgrounds into a place of mystery and seduction. Ticket-takers shepherded patrons toward the attractions of the midway; shrieking children lined up for the games and the flashing, spinning rides; and the spectacular Ferris wheel, a metal giant, the monstrous eye of a great Cyclops, creakily woke from its daytime slumber to inspire _ooohh_ s and _aahhh_ s from the revelers. 

Alayne passed unnoticed through the growing crowds. It would be another couple hours before she had to go on, but she still had work to do, and that work depended on her anonymity.  _That_ was the reason she had dyed her hair. Striking and memorable was good for Ally the Songbird, but plain Alayne needed to watch people without them watching her.

* * *

“You’re a good observer,” Petyr had told her once, some time before.  “You can sense what someone’s feeling, what they want to hear, and you adjust your behavior accordingly.  Up until now, I know, you’ve only used that skill to protect yourself—and that’s no small achievement.  But you’re safe here, and there are bigger prizes to be had.  Your talents could be very valuable, Alayne.”

She hadn’t quite understood, not then. What Petyr was describing was a survival tactic.  If she were really safe like he said, why should she need it?  What was the prize?

“Come with me _,_ ” Petyr told her, extending an arm.  “I’d like to show you something _._ ”

It had been a chilly spring day, sunny with a sharp breeze. She’d taken the arm that Petyr offered and accompanied him to the center of the fairgrounds. There, riggers were erecting the Ferris wheel for the first time.

“Shall we take the maiden ride?” Petyr asked.

Alayne glanced up at the great iron ring with some trepidation. In sheer size it was impressive, but there was something delicate about its construction too. So high above her, its spokes looked like filigree, insubstantial tracery incapable of supporting the cars that swung along the circumference of the wheel.

Petyr must have sensed her hesitation. He’d smiled slightly and disengaged his arm from hers, only to wrap it more securely around her shoulders. He continued to walk forward, inexorably, toward the Ferris wheel, with Alayne keeping pace out of necessity.

“Spin it up, Lothor!” Petyr called cheerfully as they ascended the platform.  Alayne’s shoulders were tense under his hand—he had to have noticed—but she steeled herself and didn’t ask if he was sure it was safe, if the riggers had double-checked and triple-checked their construction work, if the screech of iron hinges in the stiff wind was quite normal.  _If I ask_ , she thought, _he’ll think I’m a foolish little girl._ These days, the world wasn’t so kind to ingénues.

So instead, Alayne nodded politely to Lothor Brune—Petyr’s chief rigger and all-around muscle—and didn’t flinch when he began to work the controls.  The great wheel revolved slowly, until a brightly painted little car hung in front of them, beside the platform.

Petyr opened the door and gestured for Alayne to take her seat inside the box, no bigger than two children’s swings set beside each other, and about as steady.

“After you, my lady,” he said, a smile of wry amusement pulling his lips just slightly upward.  He saw her apprehension; he recognized her attempts to mask it. Apparently, she wasn’t masking it very well.  _Does that make me more or less foolish in his eyes?_ she wondered.

Alayne stepped into the car, and scooted over to make room for Petyr.  He took his place beside her and shut the door, his left side pressed up against her right in the confines of the car.

“This is going to be extraordinarily popular with young couples, mark my words,” Petyr commented as the wheel began to move. “A few minutes alone together in the dark, skin touching skin as they dangle among the stars, the perceived danger— _perceived_ danger only, I promise—flooding their bloodstreams with adrenaline… what would you pay for such a heady experience, sweetling?”

Alayne watched the carnival grounds fall away beneath her as they rose up into the sky.

“I thought you said people wanted to forget their troubles,” she said.  “Now you say they’ll pay to be afraid.”

“Ahh,” Petyr said.  “But it’s a different kind of fear, isn’t it? A little frisson, and nothing more—not the grinding, wearing fears of day-to-day survival.  Flying is frightening, but it’s also exhilarating. And just look at the view.”

The Ferris wheel came to a stop, with Petyr and Alayne’s car perched at the very summit of its revolution.

“What do you see, Alayne?”

Alayne surveyed the panorama spread out before them—the striped tents of the carnival looked like toys from up here, the workers and performers scurrying about like playthings too.  It was an oasis of busy excitement set down in the vast, featureless fields of rural Kansas.

“I see the carnival,” she said simply. “Your carnival.”

“And what is the purpose of _my_ carnival, Alayne?” Petyr asked.

“It’s like you said,” she answered. “To distract people, to make them forget.  They listen to Marillion and me sing that life’s a bowl of cherries, and they forget that it isn’t true. Or they come up here… with a friend, or… or a lover… and they forget that there’s anything else in the world besides that other person sitting next to them.”  Alayne glanced up at Petyr.  “Is that right?”

“One night of distraction from their tedious, workaday lives,” Petyr commented, meeting her gaze.  “You almost make our line of work seem noble.” 

There was a hint there, Alayne knew. He was prodding her further. Petyr wasn’t entertaining the masses to brighten their dreary days.

“I suppose…” Alayne bit her lip. Once upon a time, this sort of calculated thinking would have been completely alien to her. But she’d been a different person then. “I suppose if we can distract them, we can make them do things they wouldn’t ordinarily do.”

Petyr smiled.  “Distract the mind to better tempt the flesh,” he said. He looked pleased, and she felt the warmth of pride kindle in her when he said: “You suppose just right.”

“Is that the prize?” Alayne asked suddenly, puzzling something out.  “What you were saying earlier, about observing people.  Is that the prize?  Figuring out what they want and… tempting them toward it?”

“Exactly,” Petyr said.  “When you know what a man wants, you know who he is, and how to move him.”  He paused. “That was exceptionally clever of you, Alayne.”  Alayne felt her cheeks flush. Petyr wasn’t like Marillion, who used “clever” as a synonym for “resistant.”  Petyr meant it—and Alayne realized that she very much wanted to prove that his faith in her was deserved.

 “I’m tired of just trying to survive,” she said. “You said I could be valuable.  I want to be.  I want to know how.”

 Petyr held her level gaze for a moment. Then he began to talk, and they continued to talk as the wheel made its lurching descent to the ground. Their heads close together, Alayne could smell his breath—it was mint, cold and sharp.  When Petyr gestured to Lothor Brune to send them around again, he told her his plans.

* * *

Alayne slipped in and out of the crowds on the midway and nobody paid her any mind, the chestnut-haired girl in the unostentatious brown dress.  Hands in her pockets, she clasped a small stack of red paper tickets bearing the words: FREE ENTRANCE.  She found her first likely prospect at the penny arcade.

The young woman’s blonde hair was plaited into a long braid down her back.  She was pretty, but her over-applied makeup signaled a lack of confidence in her looks. Her floral patterned dress was new, and looked fairly expensive.  She’d dressed up for the night out, but she’d come to the carnival alone.

“Excuse me, Miss?” Alayne said, approaching the woman with a bright smile.  “Might I have a moment of your time?”

The blonde woman looked startled and a little embarrassed.

“Oh, oh of course,” she said in a quiet voice. “What is it?”

“I’m Alayne,” said Alayne, extending a hand to shake. “My father’s Mr. Petyr Baelish.”

The woman made a small gasp.  “Mr. Petyr Baelish… oh, oh my, is he _the_ Petyr Baelish, the owner of the fair?  I do love it, really.  This is the third time I’ve been this week!”

 _Is it?_ Alayne mused.  _All the better._

Alayne smiled even more brightly. “That’s wonderful! But it’s not just the carnival, you know.”  Alayne glanced around, as though she were making sure they weren’t overheard, and stepped closer to the woman. “He doesn’t like to advertise it, because then we’d just be inundated by applicants, but my father’s branching out into movie production.”

The blonde’s eyes widened, and though Alayne couldn’t be sure quite yet, she thought she saw something hungry in her expression.

 “Carnivals are wonderful places to spot talent, you see,” Alayne continued.  “It’s almost magnetic, the way potential stars are drawn here.  It’s not common knowledge, but Margaery Tyrell was actually discovered at a fair.”

 “Margaery Tyrell?” the woman squeaked.

 “Oh yes, she’s a friend of the family,” Alayne said airily, as though it were no great thing to be acquainted with the woman the papers called ‘The Rose of the Silver Screen.’  “But _we’re_ looking for fresh talent.  The next ‘It’ girl, you know?  And, well, I know this must seem a little strange, but when I saw you standing there I just thought to myself, _that’s what father’s always talking about._ Oh, don’t be embarrassed! You have a natural glow. Hasn’t anyone ever told you that?”

 It wasn’t _really_ a lie—the blonde woman was certainly glowing now.

 “Anyway, we’ll be doing screen tests for select candidates after my performance at nine—I sing a little, but I’m not movie material, it’s no shame to admit it.”  Alayne affected modesty.  “If you’re interested…” She drew a red ticket from her coat pocket and held it enticingly before the blonde woman.  “... well, we’d love to have you.”

 The woman, as expected, took the ticket eagerly and clutched it to her chest as though it were the most precious prize she could ever have won.

 “Oh thank you!  I’ll be there, I promise!” she said.

 Alayne flashed the mark one last smile before turning and disappearing into the crowd again.  Ten minutes later, she found another in line at a concession stand.

 “Excuse me, Miss?  Might I have a moment of your time?”

* * *

 Petyr was waiting backstage, arms crossed, expression stony.

 “I know, I know, I’m late.  But it’s only because the pickings were so good tonight. I gave out all my tickets,” Alayne said, shedding her coat onto the prop table and hurriedly unbraiding her hair so it fell in loose waves down her back.  “Do you mind?”

 Petyr averted his eyes as Alayne unbuttoned her brown dress, stripping down to her shift and slipping into the floor-length silver gown she wore when she sang.  It took her less than thirty seconds total to make the change.

 “See?” Alayne said.  “I’m ready now.  And I was only a couple minutes late, anyway.  You shouldn’t worry about me.  I know my part.  Not like _him_.”

 A crooning male voice floated to them in the wings—Marillion was nearing the end of his set, which meant he should have been singing “Ain’t She Sweet” or “My Blue Heaven.”  Instead, he’d switched to some moody melody Alayne didn’t recognize. He’d been pestering Petyr to let him sing his original songs for weeks, and Petyr always (rightly, considering their poor quality) said no.  Apparently this was the night vanity got the better of rational caution.

 “I told him to stick to Tin Pan Alley,” Petyr said darkly. “Keep the audience happy. Not this overwrought garbage.” They listened to the lyrics for a moment.

  _… you with your red hair, oh, but we’re all in the red these days …_

Alayne grimaced.  “I think he’s singing about the stock market crash.” She hoped Petyr hadn’t noticed the allusion to red hair.  _That_ wasn’t a reference to the economic collapse. _That_ was more than a little troubling.

Petyr scoffed.  “I found him jumping box cars and suddenly he’s the voice of the people.”

  _Something will have to be done about him._

 The thought came again unbidden, and Alayne shook her head a little, as if she could knock free that strange foreboding that something bad was coming closer.

 Then they heard applause and Petyr clapped his hand on Alayne’s bare shoulder.

 “I know my part,” she assured him once more.

 “I know you do, sweetling,” Petyr replied, and strode out onto the stage.

 Somehow it never grew old, watching Petyr in front of the crowd each night.  In her silver lamé gown, Alayne always felt a bit like an imposter. The dress hugged her body like a glove, but the role of alluring _chanteuse_ she played on stage still seemed ill fitting.  Changing clothes was easier than changing personas, Alayne found. Petyr, though, slipped in and out of roles so smoothly.  The garish striped waistcoat, the top hat, the bonhomie he exuded as proprietor of the carnival—he wore these things so naturally.  His peevishness at Marillion’s little rebellion melted away when he stepped into the spotlight; he slapped Marillion’s back and solicited applause with what seemed to be completely genuine conviviality.  He must have convinced Marillion too, because after the singer took his bows, waved to the crowd, and joined Alayne in the wings, he seemed completely unaware that anything was wrong.

 “I have a surprise for you,” he whispered in Alayne’s ear.  He was always whispering in her ear.  “I found a mark for the screen tests.  Her father’s loaded.  Just wait until you see.”

 Alayne frowned slightly.  Marillion wasn’t supposed to be involved in the Hollywood con. Apparently, he’d been overstepping his bounds in more ways than one.

 But Alayne would have to mull this over later. It was nearly her cue to go on.

 “… our final act, which I know you’ve all been waiting for!” Petyr was saying to a cheering audience.  “Our raven-haired beauty with the prettiest voice on the Plains, and I don’t just say that because she’s also my own dear daughter…” (He winked, and the spectators laughed.)  “It’s _Ally the Songbird!_ ”

 And then Alayne was out on stage with her father, smiling and smiling and blushing modestly at the wolf whistles from the men in the crowd.  Petyr had told her she didn’t have to play the seductress—men’s imaginations would do all the work for her.  Alayne hadn’t been sure that was much relief, but at least it meant she didn’t have to completely hide her bashfulness.  In that dress, she could have grimaced and scowled and they’d have thought it coy.

 “Come now, my dear,” Petyr said, guiding her to the microphone stand as if she were too embarrassed to move to the center of the stage.  It was all an act of course—they’d done this dance every night she sang, ever since the first night, when she really had been struck by a paralyzing stage fright. Alayne had been sure she’d ruined the show even before it began, but as it turned out, the modest maiden was a great hit with the crowd.  Audiences liked her air of innocence mixed with the risqué, Petyr told her after. So they made it a part of the act.

 “Don’t be nervous,” Petyr implored her. “I’ve heard you sing in the shower, and I’m sure these fine people would like to just as much.”

 The double entendre wasn’t lost on the crowd. They laughed and cheered a little louder.

 “Well, if you say so, father,” Alayne said with a shy smile. “I suppose I must!”

 Behind the backdrop of painted stars and a crescent moon, her pianist began to play.  Alayne gripped the microphone stand and began to sing.

  _“Say it’s only a paper moon, sailing over a cardboard sea, but it wouldn’t be make believe if you believed in me.”_

 Alayne couldn’t see what she looked like singing, and she didn’t trust Marillion when he told her she was radiant, dazzling, incandescent.  Nor did she much countenance the cheers of the inebriated audience. But none of that mattered, anyway. There were only six people under Ally the Songbird’s tent that Alayne needed to impress.

  _“Yes it’s only a canvas sky, hanging over a muslin tree, but it wouldn’t be make believe if you believed in me.”_

Six young women with red tickets in their hands sat together at a table marked RESERVED, their upraised faces glowing in the light of the colored lanterns draped along the front of the stage.

_“Without your love, it’s a honky-tonk parade.  Without your love, it’s a melody played in a penny arcade.”_

They were the real audience—just those six. Playing on their low self-esteem and flattering them that their unspoken desire for fame and fortune could come true was only the first half of the game.  Part two was proving that a transformation was possible. And Alayne was the proof: she had approached them as a diffident girl in a simple dress (a girl much like them), but now she had to convincingly portray a starlet.  If she were successful, Alayne knew they would each be imagining themselves in her place. 

 And that was the point.

  _It may seem counterintuitive_ , Petyr had told her, _but the kind of marks we’re looking for will be more susceptible to flattery from a woman than a man.  Pretty girls quickly learn that compliments from men are not given out of any purity of affection. But when such blandishments come from another woman…_

 _They’ll think they’re sincere,_ Alayne said.

  _Precisely,_ Petyr had replied.

 Over the course of the song Alayne made eye contact with each of the six marks at least once, and watched their faces light up with excitement.  She could feel it, that it was going to be a good night.

  _“It’s a Barnum and Bailey world, just as phony as it can be…”_

Alayne found Petyr in the wings and when their eyes met they mirrored each other’s smiles.  He nodded then, pleased, his expression turning rapacious as he peered through the curtains at the six ticket holders.

  _“But it wouldn’t be make believe if you believed in me._ ”

* * *

And then the show was over.  Petyr was guiding the audience out of the tent, promising them more excitement from “Magnificent Mya the Spritely Skywalker!” Alayne wasn’t disappointed to miss Mya’s highwire act tonight—Alayne felt dizzy just watching her walk that tightrope without a net.  She was truly fearless, Mya Stone, and certainly sure-footed.

 But there was business to attend to. Alayne had invited her six hand-picked marks backstage as Petyr was moving the crowd on to other amusements. The girls were giddy with anticipation (and, perhaps, the champagne the carnival’s proprietor had so graciously offered them as special guests).  "It’s time to start the screen tests!" Alayne told them with feigned enthusiasm. Behind her sunny expression, Alayne observed them dispassionately, her mind clicking and whirring with the objectivity of a camera.  _It’s time to finish reeling you in_ , she thought.

 As Alayne made small talk with the marks, accepting their compliments and reciprocating with some of her own—specifically designed to flatter the girls while subtly pitting them against each other—Petyr set up the film camera.

 This much wasn’t a con.  It _was_ a real camera—and an expensive one too.  Alayne wasn’t lying when she told the girls that it used the same Technicolor process as in _The Wizard of Oz._ The girls giggled, and the four brunettes unconsciously began to fiddle with their hair.  Everyone wanted to be Judy Garland these days.

 So the camera was real, and they really were going to film snippets of each mark.  And then, hopefully, at least a couple of the girls’ fathers or husbands or boyfriends would accede to their pleading and fork over the cash for developing the film and shipping it to Petyr’s contacts in California.

 ( _Does it have to be in color?_ they’d ask plaintively when Petyr told them the price. _Black and white is classic, isn’t it?_ Petyr would sigh and shake his head. _Black and white is old fashioned.  Producers these days want a modern girl, and color is modern. You don’t want the first thing a casting agent to think is that she’s fusty, do you?_   Of course they didn’t.  _Of course you don’t._ )

 “All right, who’s first?” Peter asked genially. Now that it was actually time, the girls were looking at each other with expressions more shrewd than friendly. Alayne knew what they were thinking: _Is it better to go first and look the most self-assured? Or should I wait and see what the others do wrong so I can avoid their mistakes?_

 Alayne stepped in to help make up their minds.

 “Oh _you_ should start us off,” she said, taking the overly made-up blonde by the elbow and guiding her to stand before the canvas backdrop and paper crescent moon. “ _You’re_ just gorgeous in this light.  See how it turns your hair golden?  That’ll show up beautifully on the film.”

 From experience in this practical psychology, Alayne knew that the other five would be feeling a little panicked now that they weren’t the first chosen.  They’d be all the more eager to prove themselves, and all the more desperate to pay for their own reels to be sent out before anyone else’s.

 Petyr was just beginning to give the blonde directions— _all right turn to the left, and smile at the camera, now give us a glance over your shoulder, perfect! You’re a natural!_ —when Marillion strolled onto the stage, arm in arm with an astonishingly buxom young woman with wild brown curls falling over her shoulders.

 “Not too late for the screen tests, I see,” he said, slurring his words a little as he greeted them.  Alayne’s stomach dropped, and she looked surreptitiously at Petyr, who was bound to be angry at this interruption.  Marillion was _not_ supposed to be involved in this.  But Petyr’s smile was smooth and untroubled.  Of course, he couldn’t let any of the marks suspect that anything was wrong.

 “Ahh, Marillion, our gallant guitarist,” Petyr said, without even a hint of sarcasm.  “And you’ve brought a lady friend—what a welcome surprise.  It’s a pleasure to make your acquaintance, Miss…?”

 “Royce,” the girl replied in a sultry voice. “I’m Myranda Royce.”

 “Myranda was just telling me that she’s always wanted to be an actress, and I told her I know _just_ the man to see.”  Marillion looked sickeningly proud of himself, and Alayne wanted to slap that smug smile right off of his face.  The game was up. She knew it, Petyr knew it, and at some subconscious level the six original ticket holders knew it too. They looked at Myranda—prettier than them, in nicer clothes than them, positively dripping with sensuality and possessed of a self-confidence that they could only imagine—and the hope drained from their faces.  The blonde, who had been preening before the camera just moments before, had suddenly altered her posture. She slouched now, hugging her elbows, studying her feet.

 The situation was even worse than she thought. When Petyr next spoke, any possibility of salvaging the night’s work was completely erased.

 “Royce, is it?” Petyr asked.  “You wouldn’t happen to be related to Nestor Royce, the state attorney general?”

 “Oh yes!” Myranda said blithely, untouched by the changed atmosphere in the tent.  “He’s my father.”

 And that was that.  Petyr made a show of placing Myranda in line with the other girls, but it was only a matter of minutes before he “realized” that something had happened with the camera film and he’d have to replace it—at some time and cost.

 “Another night, ladies, another night,” he said, trying to assuage their disappointment.  “You have real talent—I can feel it.”

 Alayne shook their hands and gave the blonde, who was trying to hide her watery eyes, a quick embrace.

 “Please do come back,” she said. “I’d love to talk some more.”

 But it was all to no avail.  Alayne knew that the humiliation stung too much, and even this three-time visitor wouldn’t be back again.

* * *

 Marillion found her sitting alone by the railroad tracks.  She’d come out there alone to cool down; the sight of Marillion had made her so incandescently angry that she hadn’t been sure she could control herself.  Petyr had left them, all gracious courtesy, to see what could be gotten from the other shows that night, but Alayne’s work was done—ruined, spoiled—and she just needed to be alone.

 Of course, on a night like this one, she’d never be so lucky.

 “Don’t be sore, Ally,” Marillion said, sidling close. They sat on the edge of an embankment, a raised mound of earthwork parallel to the tracks and about ten feet above. “I didn’t think you’d mind, seeing as you’re always acting like you don’t care.  But once I saw how jealous you were, I got rid of Myranda. See?”  He spread his arms as though to prove he wasn’t hiding other women in his coat.  Not that he could’ve hidden Myranda easily: she was both fleshy _and_ flashy.

 “I wasn’t _jealous_ ,” Alayne said, standing up to prevent him putting his arm around her and drawing her any closer.  His breath smelled like smoke and liquor.  “I don’t care what women you take out.  I don’t care what you do with them.  What I _do_ care about is you coming in after the show and ruining everything Petyr and I’d set up!”

 “ _Ruining_ it?” Marillion gawped at her.  He scrabbled to his feet.  “I was helping you! That was Myranda Royce! Her father’s loaded!”

 “Yes, you said.”  Alayne couldn’t believe he was actually this dense. “She’s the attorney general’s daughter, Marillion.  Or did you miss that part?  It doesn’t matter how rich she is.  You’d have to be a complete idiot to try to pull a con on the _attorney general’s daughter_.  I’m not an idiot.  Petyr’s not an idiot. Are you?”

 Marillion’s face flushed with anger. “Oh yes, _Petyr_. It’s always you and Petyr. You think I’m so stupid, but I know he’s not your father.  Fathers don’t look at their daughters the way he looks at you.  It’s creepy, that’s what it is.  It’s fucked up!”

 “You’re wrong,” Alayne said, shocked. “Why would you even say that? You’re wrong!”

 “No, I’m not that dumb, ‘Ally.’ I know who you really are.” He leaned in close and gripped her arms, his foul breath making her want to gag.  “You’re Sansa Stark.  I read about you in the papers—you were even in one of those newsreels a year or two back, weren’t you?  Your father was caught doing insider trading, and when the Lannister Corporation outed him he offed himself, didn’t he?  Real corrupt deal.  I remember. People even blame you Starks for the crash.  You know they're offering a big reward for information about you.  I could be rich!  So how stupid am I now, _Sansa_.  Huh?”

 “You’re wrong,” Alayne said quietly, frozen in horror. “I’m Alayne Stone. I’m Petyr’s daughter. I… I…”

 “Sansa Sansa _Sansa_ ,” Marillion pleaded, seeming to repent his outburst. “It’s such a pretty name. I wouldn’t turn you over to them, not if you don’t want to go.  I could take care of you.  All I think about is you. You’re so beautiful, Sansa, and you—”

 Alayne shoved him away from her with a sudden rush of strength.

 “ _Don’t. Call. Me. That,”_ she spat through clenched teeth.

 Marillion must have seen something frightening in her expression, because he began to back away with a look of trepidation, so foreign to his usually self-satisfied face.  

  _Something has to be done about him_ , she thought to herself.

 “Sansa, wait—”

 She pushed hard at his shoulders, and he toppled backwards over the embankment, mouthing a shocked _oh_ as he fell to the tracks below.  There was an unpleasant _splat_  upon impact.

* * * 

_Oh god oh god oh god what have I done?_

Sansa Stark looked down at the body—Marillion’s body—sprawled on the tracks.

  _Maybe he’s only unconscious,_ she thought in a panic.  _People can survive a ten foot fall, can’t they?_

 But the moon was full and under its light Sansa could see a dark, wet stain spreading out from where Marillion’s head lay, deformed, on the rail.  He was dead, very certainly dead, and Sansa realized she’d known it the moment she heard that horrible wet cracking sound.

  _What have I done?_

 Sansa didn’t know how long she’d been standing there, frozen, staring at the broken body of the singer below. A minute, an hour? But no, it couldn’t have been long—the moon was above, in roughly the same position it had been when Marillion arrived to profess his love and offer veiled threats.  Perhaps it hadn’t been any time at all.

 But something had changed.

 In the moment, Sansa had felt that what she was doing—purposefully pressing Marillion to the edge of the embankment, pushing him over the ledge—was necessary.  It was like all the unformed foreboding she’d felt that day had suddenly taken shape. The oblique thought that _something_ had to be done was made clear, and the path forward seemed so obvious.  It was simple, the solution illuminated by the light of pure instrumental rationality. _Something_ meant pushing Marillion to his death.  _Petyr always said I could read people_ , she’d thought, and she when she saw Marillion what she read was “loose cannon.”  He couldn’t be trusted. He had to go.

 It was nothing personal; it was survival.

 But now something felt wrong in Sansa’s mind, like a gear shifting out of place, and Marillion’s body on the train tracks beneath her didn’t look necessary.  It looked like murder.

  _I_ _’m a murderer_ , Sansa thought. _Oh god, oh god! What would my father think?_

She could see him now—they’d taken him to his office in the corporate headquarters, sat him down behind his desk, and put a gun to his temple.  Sansa, sobbing and screaming, saw it all through the glass door of his office. He’d promised to take the fall, and they’d promised to let him retire in disgrace if he gave up his seat on the Board of Directors.  But they changed their minds.  And when he sat down, expecting to sign his letter of resignation, they shot him in the head and made it look like a suicide.  Night after night, the scene had played out in her mind, projected on the inside of her eyelids in vivid Technicolor.  The next day, all the papers read: NED STARK KILLS HIMSELF.

 “Father,” Sansa whispered, tears streaming down her cheeks.  “Father…”

 It was a while before Sansa remembered who she was supposed to be.

 “Alayne?”  She heard someone calling for her from the direction of the carnival. “Alayne?  Where are you?”

 Sansa, startled, jumped up from where she’d collapsed on the grass.  Her head spun. The moon had moved in the sky. And she recognized the voice—it was Petyr Baelish.

 It was her father.

 “I’m here!” she called back.  “I’m fine!  I’m here!”

 Petyr must have heard something unusual in her voice, because he nearly jogged across the field to get to her.

 “Alayne?” he asked, brushing the hair from her face. A deep vertical crease appeared between his eyebrows when he saw the tear stains on her cheeks. “Alayne, what happened?”

 Sansa swallowed hard. “It’s Marillion,” she said. “He came after me, he tried to force himself on me… and I…”  She glanced toward the embankment.

 Petyr followed her gaze and stepped carefully toward the ledge, peered over, glanced back at her.

 “You did well, Alayne,” he said. “You were right to defend yourself.” He took Sansa in his arms and held her close against his chest.  He still wore the garish ringmaster’s suit, and its metallic threads scratched against her cheek.  Her body shook with a sob.  “Hush, hush now, sweetling. We can take care of this easily. If anyone comes looking for Marillion, we’ll say he was skipping town—trouble with a girl, people will believe that, and it’s not all false.  He must have been trying to jump the boxcars, like he used to do, and fell to his death. A tragic accident. But perhaps, for us at least, all for the best.”

 Sansa was glad Petyr couldn’t see her face. Even in the dim moonlight, he might have noticed something there that would give her away.  Because in truth, she wasn’t afraid.  Or at least not of getting caught, like Petyr assumed.  She was afraid of herself—of what she’d done, and done so easily.  He hadn’t been trying to rape her.  He’d only said her name, her real name.

 Who was that girl who’d murdered him so easily?

 “Alayne,” Petyr murmured, stroking her hair. “My sweet Alayne.”

* * *

 The next morning, Sansa awoke with a terrible headache. _A crying headache_ , she realized.  She’d gotten them as a child—a pounding between her eyes, invariably the day after a quarrel with one of her siblings ( _Arya, it was usually Arya)_ had brought her to tears.

She was in her room, the well-appointed train car that Petyr had designated as her own.  As far as traveling carnivals went, it was a luxury.  She still wore the silver dress she’d performed in the night before, but her shoes and stockings had been removed.  Petyr must have put her to bed before doing whatever it was he had to do to arrange the scene of the murder.

  _A man at a desk.  A gun.  A glass door._

Sansa shook her head.  She couldn’t think of it—not now, not when everything depended on her mind being clear.  She had to be Alayne again.  It had been so easy before; she’d played the role so long and so well that it hadn’t seemed like a role at all, and the mask just felt like skin.  But in the time it took Marillion to fall ten feet, everything had changed. It was as if _she_ were the one who’d split her head on the rails. Alayne cracked open, and Sansa crawled out.

 She looked for her simple brown day dress for a full minute before she remembered that she’d left it on the prop table when she made her quick change the evening before.  It was a shame; the brown dress just seemed more like "Alayne" than anything else she had. But there was nothing to be done. She braided her hair into a coil around her head and patted powder onto the circles under her eyes. She tried out a smile on the mirror. It didn’t look convincing to her, but there was no more time to prepare—someone was knocking at her door.

 “Police, open up!”

 Sansa took a deep breath and opened the door.

 “How can I help you, officers? Oh!  Hello, father.”

 Three men stood in Sansa’s doorway: Petyr, wearing a placid expression, and two strangers with deep scowls.

 “Alayne, this is Detective Royce and Detective Corbray,” Petyr said smoothly.  “I believe you met Detective Royce’s … cousin, is it? Second cousin? In any case, you remember Myranda Royce, from last night?”

 “Oh that’s right,” Sansa said, nodding agreeably as she stepped out into the morning sun.  “She came to hear me sing.  That was so kind of her—she’s a lovely girl.”

 “Indeed,” Detective Royce muttered, looking at Sansa suspiciously from under heavy brows.  She tried to look as unruffled as Petyr, but, she mused, if you have to _try_ to look carefree, you’re not likely to succeed.  “And what do you know about the young man who accompanied her?”

 Sansa didn’t dare look to Petyr for a cue. The two detectives had fixed their complete attention on her, and they would notice any hesitation.

 “Marillion?” she said.  “He’s a singer with the carnival, usually goes on right before me. He’s a bit of a drifter, but he’s good with a guitar.”

 Royce and Corbray looked at each other meaningfully, and Sansa took the opportunity to gauge Petyr’s reaction. He gave her the very tiniest of nods, a sign that he approved of her characterization of her and Marillion’s relationship—friendly, but distant.  He stepped forward to take Sansa’s hand.

 “Alayne, my dear, I’m afraid we have some bad news,” he said, looking to the detectives to break the story.

 “The boy’s dead,” Detective Corbray said bluntly. Royce looked at him with undisguised irritation.

 “Jesus Christ, Lyn,” he hissed.

 Corbray shrugged.  “Well he is."

 “Oh, oh my god!” Sansa said softly. She clutched Petyr’s arm as if to steady herself.  “But… how is it possible? I just saw him last night!”

 Royce had a hungry gleam in his eye.

 “And _when_ , exactly, did you see him last night?” the detective asked.

 “At the show, of course,” Sansa said without a pause. She didn’t know what else to say—either the detectives had arrived sooner than Petyr expected, before he could brief her on their story, or somehow he’d arranged it so that it wouldn’t matter what reply she gave.  Knowing Petyr, the latter seemed more likely.  Sansa stuck to the safe story: she saw him at the show with Myranda, she left the two of them alone together, she went to bed.  Petyr didn’t interject, which meant she was doing well—or she wasn’t doing well but it would be too suspicious for him to try to correct her. Sansa had to hope it was the former.

 “Interesting…” Detective Royce said after Sansa finished telling her story, short and simple as it was.  “Myranda told me that the deceased left her quite soon after the show ended.  Apparently, he told her that he was afraid he’d lost _your_ affections by bringing another woman to the show.”

 “Oh?” Sansa asked, eyes wide with innocence. “Oh that’s so sad… that he died before I ever knew.”

 Detective Corbray seemed unconvinced. “Miss Royce reported that he followed you after just minutes.  It seems strange that he wouldn’t find you before you went to bed. You work together, very closely it seems—didn’t he know where you slept?”

 “I’m not in the habit of inviting men to my room,” Sansa said firmly, and the offense she felt wasn’t at all feigned.

 “Officers,” Petyr said in a conciliatory tone, stepping in at last.  “I think it’s clear what happened last night.  Marillion left Myranda Royce after the performance, but not to see my daughter. He must have lost hope that his affections would be returned, and decided to skip town on a train. He was an impulsive young man, anyone who knew him will agree.  It was late, he’d been drinking, and he lost his footing.  A tragic accident, to be sure.  He’ll certainly be missed.”

 Corbray looked affronted.  “Are you a detective now too, Baelish?” he said, voice raised. He prodded Petyr in the chest with his index finger.  “I can see through that sleazy smile—you’re as seedy as they come.  There’s something funny about this, and you can bet—”

 “Detective Corbray!”  Royce interposed himself between the two men. “Control yourself.” He turned to Petyr and Sansa, frowning but professional.  “Thank you for your time.  You’ll be hearing from us soon.”

 Sansa watched the two men until they’d disappeared behind the empty tents of the carnival in daylight.  When she looked away, she found Petyr staring at her with a strange expression.

 “Did I… did I do all right?” she asked.

Petyr's expression didn't change as he told her: “Perfect, as always.” She nodded slightly, and turned to re-renter her room.  “And Alayne?” Petyr called after her.

 “Yes, Father?” Sansa answered. She didn’t turn back to look at him. She didn’t know what he’d seen in her face, but she couldn’t afford for him to see any more of it.

 “Meet me at the Ferris wheel today at noon. We can have lunch with a view.”

 “Yes, Father," she said.

* * *

They hovered in midair above the carnival. Sansa had packed sandwiches, but neither of them moved to eat.  There was a tension between them that hadn’t been there before.

 “What’s frightening you Alayne?” Petyr asked, as the Ferris wheel stopped moving and dangled them at the top of its arc.

 Sansa looked out over the landscape. “Detective Corbray doesn’t like you,” she said finally.  “He suspects something, and I’m worried he’s not going to let it go until he finds out the truth.”

 Petyr laughed.  “That’s precisely what he’s going to do.  Right now, in fact, he is conducting an unauthorized search of your room and mine, without a warrant.  He won’t find anything, of course, but Brune will find _him_ mid-act.  The blatant disregard for procedure and ethics will then get this case closed very, very quickly—to avoid embarrassing the police department.”

 Sansa inhaled quickly, a small gasp. “Detective Corbray… he’s in your pay, isn’t he?”

 Petyr smiled.  “I always knew you were quick on the uptake, Alayne. You have my wits.”

 Just a day before, a compliment like that would have made her beam, but now Sansa only felt a little sick.  She tried hard to remain relaxed, but she involuntarily stiffened beside him.  And Petyr noticed.

 Before she could move—not that she could have moved far in the tight confines of their Ferris wheel compartment—Petyr had placed his hands on either side of her face.  His grip was strong, and prevented her from turning away as he looked directly into her eyes for what seemed like a very long time.  His expression was dispassionate, calculating.

 “My sweet Alayne,” he said, his voice chilly.  He moved his right hand to stroke the wavy strands of brown hair that had escaped from her loose braid in the wind.  “Sometimes things may happen that shock you or frighten you, and you may lose sight of who you are.  But I will always be here to remind you.”

 Sansa felt her heart beating faster. The unemotional way he was looking at her, so unlike his usual glances of pride (and perhaps something else, perhaps something Marillion had seen that she had not, perhaps _desire_ ), made Sansa wonder (though she couldn’t be sure, and of course she was wrong, she had to be wrong) if Petyr had left part of that last sentence unsaid. If he might have finished it with _or else_.

 They swung there, two hundred feet above the world, for a silent moment.

 “You must be Alayne all the time,” he told her ( _warned her_ ), pressing two fingers to her left breast.  “Even here, in your heart.  Can you do that?”

 She wanted to go back—but she couldn’t be sure whether that meant back when it was easy to be Alayne, or back before she’d ever needed to be.  Neither seemed possible now. But then, she had always found a way to survive.

  _You’re a good observer,_ she remembered Petyr telling her.  It seemed like a lifetime ago. _You can sense what someone’s feeling, what they want to hear, and you adjust your behavior accordingly._

 “Can you be my daughter in your heart?” Petyr asked.

_When you know what a man wants, you know who he is, and how to move him._

 There was only one viable answer.

 She placed her hands on either side of Petyr’s face and kissed him long and deep.  After several seconds, she pulled gently away, letting her lips brush against his for a moment more.  He tasted like mint, cold and sharp, but his expression had softened.

 “I am Alayne, Father,” Sansa said. “Who else would I be?”


End file.
